


Know Your Trees

by night_reveals



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is Dumb, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pack Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To stop Derek from keeping him up all night, Stiles replaces his oak window frame with mountain ash.</p><p>It doesn't go how he planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Your Trees

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing was written for the stop_drop_howl community in only sixteen hours, and thus the last few hundred words are basically me going AAHHHHH NOT GONNA MAKE IT. The prompt was "mountain ash." What can I say. I'm a literalist.

Stiles stares down at the paper in his hand. 

A circled “C” stares back at him. Even when the paper is upside down, it’s still a “C”, albeit an upside down one.

All the answers are self-evident. Is a polymer a macromolecule? (Yes.) How are its subunits connected? (By covalent bonds.) Create three possible macromolecules from the listed group of monomers. (That was easy, but...he’d written one word: “weeelf.” What?) 

Stiles thinks back to the day in class that the pop quiz had been handed out. He barely remembers it, probably because he’d spent the whole thirty-six hours before that researching (“googling purposefully”) with Derek and Jackson hovering over his shoulder. It’s not even like they really needed anything in particular from Stiles, either, considering that the alpha pack had moved on last week. It’s just that Derek has been too lazy to call someone to put internet into his apartment and Jackson can never pass up an opportunity to be a smirking douchenozzle, so their every question about anything comes to Stiles. 

Yay.

Derek and Co. even interrupt Stiles’ happy-alone-time with impromptu visits, so not only has Stiles not gotten any sleep, he also hasn’t gotten many orgasms lately. It’s pretty much shit.

As if he has accidentally summoned bad luck by thinking about it, his window flies open, its oak border cracking against the top frame. Derek comes in like a parkour devotee, one quick roll putting him directly behind Stiles, who’s seated at his computer. 

“I need you to look something up for me,” says Derek, monotone. 

“No ‘hello, Stiles’.” Stiles glares, spinning in his chair to face Derek. Seriously, he’s not even surprised at this point. “No ‘please, Stiles.’ No ‘Stiles I will worship you as you deserve in exchange for your gracious help.’”

At the joke, Derek yanks his face back like a kitten that’s been spritzed with water. Firmly, Stiles tells himself that the look is not hot on Derek. 

“Now that you and Scott are finally part of my pack – ” starts Derek.

“Look.” Stiles rubs his hand over his face. “I have to sleep. It’s midnight and I have school tomorrow. Just because my dad’s been assigned the late shift doesn’t mean you can come over every night.”

“But you’re pack,” replies Derek, his eyebrows telegraphing angry-confused.

“I’m _human_. I’m not gonna make it on ten hours of sleep a week.”

Derek glares wordlessly, eloquent as usual.

“You can’t keep me up all night, anymore.” Stiles tries to say it with conviction, but about halfway through his brain hiccups and it ends up coming out pleading. 

Derek shoots him an unreadable look under a heavy brow. Stiles doesn’t have time to dissect it before he’s being spun back around and pushed up against the computer desk, Derek boxing him in until their bodies are almost flush. 

“Just look up what I tell you to,” Derek says into Stiles’ ear.

Stiles fingers find the keyboard without any input from his brain, though he sneaks a look at Derek’s arms, which are corded with muscle and very, very close. 

“I am such a good looker-upper of things,” says Stiles inanely, voice strangled as he tries not to breath in Derek’s scent.

The rumble that comes from above him might be a laugh, but Stiles is too focused on not being scared or turned on to decide.

As Derek spouts off some completely random questions that will take hours of research to answer, across the room Stiles’ clock blinks 12:20am. 

This shit is not going to fly anymore.

~

“Dude,” says Scott the next day. “You look like hell.”

Stiles blinks twice. A student going down the hallway hits his shoulder and he falls into the lockers nearby with a bang. Oh lookie. A wall to balance against. 

“You okay?” Scott cocks his head, doing a perfect impersonation of a worried puppy.

“Yeah,” reassures Stiles, mumbling. “Yeah, I’m cool. Just, is my computer the only computer in Beacon Hills? Is it special in some way? Does my google do google better than anywhere else?”

“I dunno.” Scott bites his lip, then wrinkles his nose. “Is this about Derek?” He says the name with an impressive mix of respect and disdain.

“Every night, Scott,” says Stiles, moaning once to get across his plight. “Every night he’s there. Breathing over my shoulder. Wanting me – ”

“Dude!” Scott winces, visibly shuddering. “I know you guys have been hanging out more the past few months, but. Dude.”

Train of thought broken, it takes Stiles a moment to get what Scott’s shuddering over. 

“No! Jesus, no. Wanting me _to look things up for him_. That’s all.” Stiles follows Scott’s lead and shudders in disgust. 

Yeah, disgust: that’s what he feels when he thinks of Derek behind him all night, panting down his neck and barking orders, hot breath gusting over his ears, the moon highlighting muscles everywhere. Gross.

Scott’s face is scrunched up and pained when he says, “I really think you guys need to talk to each other.”

“I’ve tried!” Stiles waves his hands around to encompass the enormity of how much he’s tried. “I’ve tried to tell him using my words that I need sleep, and he just pushes me up against things or glares at me until my organs actually start to shrivel inside of my body.” He perks up, remembering his idea. “But it’s going to be okay.”

“It is?” asks Scott doubtfully. 

“Oh ye of little faith.”

~

Stiles isn’t the best at home improvement, as his throbbing thumb can attest to, but even he can make a square out of wood.

His dad looks at his window with one eyebrow raised.

“You’re sure?” he asks, glancing at Stiles. “I mean, I guess it is your room...”

“Dad.” Stiles walks over to his new rowan frame, patting it fondly. “This is the best thing to happen around here in ages.”

“All right,” his dad replies slowly, shifting where he stands. “Well. If you’re happy.”

“I am,” promises Stiles, feeling at ease for the first time in a month. 

As soon as his dad leaves for work, it is a Stiles-only kind night. He heats up dinner and eats it over his computer, setting the plate down on various wikipedia print-outs. The one on the very top reads “Rowan – The rowans or mountain-ashes are shrubs or small trees in genus Sorbus of family Rosaceae.....” 

Stiles is used to being clever, so he doesn’t usually allow himself much time to truly feel his complete domination of an opponent.

This time he decides to make an exception.

Angling himself towards the window, Stiles waits.

Derek is going to be so shocked when he can’t just jump through anymore. Imagining his face clouding over in frustration gets Stiles gleefully through the first twenty minutes, but as the thirty and then forty minute marks pass, doubts start to creep in. What if Derek ever really needs him? What if Stiles can’t go to the door to let him in? What if his dad is home when Derek next has to visit? Or what if Derek makes Stiles come to him, from now on? Gas is expensive and the Jeep is not exactly ‘eco-friendly.’

An hour after he’s finished dinner, Stiles is glaring intently at his (admittedly ugly) window frame. 

On the desk, his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Scott.

**where r u**

Stiles frowns.

**home. why?**

The next one takes a bit longer.

**u r so lucky, i think derek is gonna make us run**

Stiles is still thinking of a response to being excluded from a pack activity when Scott’s next message comes.

**twenty miles!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

At that, Stiles fairly cackles. Nevermind. He is totally cool with being left out.

**sucks to be you bro**

A second thought occurs to him as he’s placing his phone back down. This means that Derek is going to be busy, probably all night. They’ll be running in the eastern part of Beacon Hills, where the woods get the densest and there are fewer hiking trails. The new mountain ash werewolf deterrent will go untested, at least for one night.

Stiles picks himself up from his desk chair and flops onto his bed, wondering exactly what they’re all doing now. It’s got to be the whole pack, or at least the werewolf bits: Scott, of course, and Jackson, Erica, Boyd, Isaac. Derek. Last year the only way they’d been able to defeat the alpha pack that had descended on Beacon Hills had been to band reluctantly into a group, but now Stiles can see that it ended up forging them together in a way nothing else could have. Derek’s weird hate-on for Stiles getting any sleep aside, it’s definitely the happiest Stiles has been since Scott and he got the bite. Because the bite is like pregnancy: it’s not “My wife is pregnant!” it’s “We’re pregnant!” It’s not, “My best friend got bit by a werewolf!” it’s “We got bit by a werewolf!” 

It totally makes sense. 

Stiles smacks himself on the head, trying to knock those thoughts away. 

The ceiling is boring. 

Stiles jiggles his leg, making his whole bed shake. 

A small spider makes its way west across the ceiling like a settler on the Oregon Trail, and Stiles glares up at it, hoping it gets dysentery and dies.

Okay. So it’s not that he’s bored, and it’s definitely not that he’s missing his sovereignty over his room being infringed upon, or anything. But thinking about the pack all out there, running in the night, probably howling really obnoxiously up at the sliver of the moon: it pisses Stiles off. He could have sat in the Jeep and laughed at them. He’s losing out on valuable entertainment, here. 

Except for Isaac and Erica, they’re all probably shirtless. It’s something that Stiles has always noticed, but is getting more egregious since the alpha pack moved on. In particular Jackson and Derek both seem to have a worsening shirt allergy, with Derek’s reaching disease levels by Stiles’ reckoning. Every time he vaults into Stiles’ room, he’s either wearing a tank or nothing at all.

Stiles wonders which Derek is running in now. A tank? Or nothing at all? 

It does make sense that Derek works out a lot. Whenever he’s in Stiles’ room, looming behind Stiles or reading over Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles can almost feel the absence of body fat like a constant reminder of his own baby chub. And having it pressed up against him – Stiles knows that heat perfectly.

A choked off moan fills the room. 

Shit, shit, shit. Weeks ago Stiles promised himself that this wouldn’t happen again, but – nope, it’s happening again, he’s definitely going to jack off with Derek’s name on his lips. The last time he tried this, Derek and Jackson had burst into his room through his window, but tonight, with a window frame made of mountain ash and the pack all busy, he’s free to finally do as he pleases.

Stiles slips out of his jeans, palming his cock through his boxers before he’s even got them all the way off. 

It’s been two or three weeks since Stiles has had happy-fun-alone time in his own bed and not the shower, thanks to Derek having the annoying tendency to pop up just when Stiles doesn’t need him to. With a mental “fuck you” to Derek, Stiles takes off his boxers, too, and spreads his legs wide on his bed, breathing shallowly. If he's already thinking about Derek, he might as well go the whole way.

One hand teasing himself, Stiles thinks about what it would be like if Derek _wanted_ him. If Derek crowding him against his desk suddenly became Derek bending him over a desk, how Stiles’d be stuck and spread open. 

Stiles wets a finger in his mouth then trails it over his cleft. Derek’s fingers would be bigger and probably impatient, maybe even rough. 

In the cool night his spit dries too quickly, so Stiles leans over and grabs his bottle of lube, using just enough to slick up his hands. 

After that it goes quickly, images of Lydia’s perfect face randomly popping into his head between imagining what Derek would be like, kissing him, holding him against a wall, against a bed, opening him up. 

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Stiles bites his lip and circles his hole with just a slick finger, spreading wider as he does. Usually Stiles plays around his hole for a long time, pushing gently at it before he ever tries anything, but tonight his hands are playing Derek’s hands. And Derek wouldn’t wait for Stiles. Derek would shove his full finger in until it bottomed out at the knuckle, deep and claiming.

“Derek – ” he chokes out, eyes slammed shut still. He moves his finger in counterpoint with the hand on his cock, overwhelming. He’s has never had sex before, so he knows he must be wrong about some things, but surely he’s not supposed to feel like he’s going to come from just one finger. 

That doesn’t stop him doing it, though, straight into his hand with a finger inside himself and his lips bitten and twisted. After waiting for his vision to clear, Stiles slowly draws his finger out of himself, lifting his head to look down his body as he does.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a bulk pressed up against his window. 

“What the – ” Stiles grabs for the sheets with shaking limbs, yanking them over his lap and getting up onto his knees, adrenaline rocketing through him. 

It’s Derek.

Stiles can barely breathe as the window opens from the outside. The desktop lamp illuminates Derek when he leans in, his face desperate and his eyes locked on Stiles. The window frame creaks under Derek’s hands, and Stiles glances at it, hoping it holds. Mountain ash, right? It’s magic. It’ll hold.

Stiles almost believes this, at least right up until Derek vaults into the room. Plastering himself up against the wall in a vain attempt to be inconspicuous, Stiles shivers, and looks Derek over.

He’s wearing a grey tank top and his face is slightly pink, his jeans tight, tighter than normal. Stiles double takes. 

Derek Hale definitely has an erection. In Stiles’ room. After Stiles jerked off.

“You’re,” tries Stiles, licking his lips. “You’re not supposed to be able to come in here."

“Wrong kind of mountain ash,” says Derek. His voice sounds _wrecked_. Stiles immediately focuses on something else. 

"You're supposed to be running!” 

"My betas are running. Not me." Derek doesn't take his eyes off Stiles. It almost seems like he's trying to memorize something. Like he's trying to soak something in. 

“What," starts Stiles, his eyes flicking to Derek's stretched jeans, where Derek's cock is _obscene_. "What even is this?" Which isn't the smartest question Stiles has ever asked, but, turned on werewolf in Stiles' room? It's not really computing.

"I didn't know you'd be doing that."

"It's my room!" replies Stiles, heated. His voice goes squeaky at the end, and he clears his throat. "How much did you see?" Not that it matters. The whole room must be suffused with sex. Even Stiles, with his inferior human senses, feels like he can hear the echo of his gasped out "Derek" reverberating off the walls.

Derek says nothing but shifts awkwardly, his jeans moving over his erection. Stiles stares. It's unlikely, so unlikely that Stiles never actually thought it was possible, but when left with only the improbable... "You want me," says Stiles, a little shell-shocked.

“You’re seventeen," replies Derek. It sounds like he's reminding himself, and Stiles can't help thinking _that's not 'no'_. "And."

“And?” Something is building inside of Stiles when he asks. He’s thought this was one-sided for so fucking long – he’s been half-crazy for months over Derek, but now that assumption is changing.

“And I’m the alpha.” Derek says this as if it explains everything.

“I know, but what does that mean?” Stiles looks Derek up and down, and wets his lips with his tongue. “That you're going to knock me out and take me to your cave?”

“No,” says Derek with a growl, his fist clenching.

“No...?” prompts Stiles.

“I mean that as alpha, I have responsibilities.”

Stiles frowns in confusion, unable to think of anything to say. He’s got come drying on his legs still, for fuck’s sake. Thankfully Derek starts speaking again.

“An alpha’s duty is to protect their pack. They should give as needed, not take what isn’t offered.”

Stiles thinks for a moment. It takes longer than it normally would, because that orgasm was a doozy, but eventually he figure it outs.

“You can’t make the first move, can you?” Stiles cocks his head at Derek in wonderment. As he speaks, Stiles’ voice gets stronger. He can _feel_ that he’s right. “I’m part of your pack, and you’re supposed to protect me, so you can’t do anything unless I do first.” 

Derek glances away, lip curling up, but not in anger – it looks more uncomfortable, or guilty, like Derek's a puppy that's been caught hiding his owner's shoes.

Stiles stares, trying to wrap his head around it all. Derek likes him. Derek has been trying to show him that without pressuring him. Well, he totally failed on that count, but. Intentions count?

When Stiles doesn’t say anything else, Derek deflates a little, his eyes falling to the floor and his jaw clenching. “You’ll be part of the pack no matter what you decide.”

“Dude.” Stiles gestures vaguely down at where he nutted all over himself. “Considering that you saw me jacking off to you not ten minutes ago, I think you can cut the martyr crap.”

Derek's head snaps up, his brow furrowed. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, voice only a little shaky. “So why don’t you just come here, already?”

Derek does.

**Author's Note:**

> Rowan trees are called "mountain ashes", but I figure the type of mountain ash that can contain supernatural creatures is probably of the rarer variety: something like [this](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eucalyptus_regnans).


End file.
